David Nicholls on Finding His Voice Through Letter Writing and Love Stories

Listen here:

Excerpts from the interview:

Q. You've worked across many formats, how and why did you pursue a writing career?
A . Oh, well, there was an element of necessity to it. I’d been struggling as an actor for a long time. I sensed I probably wouldn’t have a professional career as a performer, but it felt like the only way to stay involved with writing. I trained in New York for a year, which didn’t quite work out, then returned to England and pieced together a career playing small parts in fringe and repertory theaters, eventually at the National Theatre. Almost every job confirmed I wasn’t cut out for it.
I began looking for a way out—possibly into teaching, something involving texts or script editing. I became a script reader, going through plays and novels submitted for adaptation, and I absorbed so much writing that I finally took a deep breath and began writing myself. By the end of my twenties, I stepped away from performance, began working full time in script editing, and within a few years, I was writing full time.

Q . That's quite a trajectory. But did you begin writing for yourself or for public consumption?
A . No, I wrote for my friends—letters, really. When I was away on tour or living in New York, I’d write long, detailed letters about my disastrous career, and my friends found them funny and encouraged me to do more.
I also spent a lot of time working in restaurants, doing a job I didn’t want. So I wrote a sitcom for BBC called Waiting. I wrote it for nothing and submitted it. Eventually, it was picked up and developed for a small fee—just a couple of hundred pounds—but I was finally being paid to write. That felt like a real breakthrough.

Q . Do you think that the habit of letter writing shaped your narrative voice or style in a lasting way?
A . Yes, it’s almost a lost art. I sometimes wonder if my kids will ever write a letter, but I suppose there are other outlets now. I was trying to make people laugh in the way people do online today—little jokes, observations, anecdotes, and embarrassing stories.
A big breakthrough for me came in 1989 when I got a very basic word processor. Being able to store, adapt, and tweak my writing made the process feel less arduous. With my cheap Canon word processor, I began writing long, funny stories—some of which eventually made their way into my fiction.

Q. Do you think letter writing gave you the space and time to develop that reflective, observant quality in your writing?
A . Yes, I think the great joy of writing is having the time to consider in the moment. I’m not naturally witty or quick—I'm quite slow-thinking. But the joy of writing a novel is that you have, in my case far too long, three or four years to polish everything, to get the rhythms right, the words precise, and the images true.
Editing has always been a crucial part of my writing process. That’s why the breakthrough in word processing was so important to me. That’s a part of the process I love, and especially essential in comedy, where precision is absolutely key.


Q. Was that balance between external landscape and internal journey something you set out to achieve from the start?
A . The aim with this book was to create a close relationship with the characters. It’s about two figures in a landscape, where you see all the nuances in their conversation and the tiny looks and smiles that move the relationship forward, set against the backdrop of mountains and lakes.
A big part of this was the walk I did myself—about 200 miles from the west coast of England to the east, over mountains, moors, and heathland. It was an incredible experience, and while walking, I wasn’t improvising exactly, but I definitely found inspiration in the landscape for what might happen next. I really enjoyed imagining what would happen if I put these two characters in a field, in the rain, when they’re hungry and unsure of each other.

Q. Y ou Are Here exemplifies the Romantic spirit of subjectivity versus objectivity. Was that something you consciously aimed for in the novel?
A . I did read some of the Romantics while writing the book. Marnie , in particular, is well-read and self-taught, with a deep knowledge of writing and literature. I liked the idea of putting her in a landscape she doesn’t want to be in. She’s a city person, and I wanted to contrast her with another character who’s more like someone who finds inspiration and comfort in nature.
The friction between Marnie and Michael , especially at the start, comes from that contrast. There’s comedy in that dynamic. By the end of the walk, Marnie has come around to appreciating the value of all that weather and discomfort, but at the beginning, she definitely doesn’t want to be there.

Q . How you portray their vulnerability really stands out. Was that something you set out to achieve in the development of their relationship?
A . Thank you. Michael is a slightly less accessible character—he’s buttoned up, shy, and wary of sharing his anxieties. Marnie, on the other hand, keeps things to herself but performs in a way; she’s witty, funny, and leads the conversation, which made her a lot of fun to write. With Michael, a lot of the writing was focused on his inner thoughts—his regrets, his anxiety about not becoming a father, and the end of his marriage. That seemed to be a perspective not often explored—the notion of whether or not one becomes a parent.
It’s something all of us will have to grapple with at some point—an emotional, vexed subject. The tendency is often to see it from a female perspective, which I understand, and that’s in the book too.

Q. With Michael, you include a violent episode that reflects masculinities across generations. Was it important for you to show both his vulnerability and that aspect of masculinity?
A . Yes, often men and violence are linked in entertainment, and when we think of male stories, we think of violence. I wanted to write about someone who is a victim of violence rather than the perpetrator, and to portray how traumatising it can be. Michael doesn’t do the conventional thing—he’s not someone who brushes himself off and punches back. He’s broken by it, which sends him into a deep depression.
The idea of vengeance and fighting back is usually expected, but Michael can't do that. I wanted to explore this, as it’s rarely portrayed in culture.

Q. Given your experience writing for film and television, do you find the styles of adapting for the screen different from novel writing?
A . Yes, very much so. Screenwriting is more practical and pragmatic. A script is essentially an instruction manual, a technical document open to interpretation, which makes it so collaborative. In contrast, fiction writing is much more solitary. While I have a wonderful editor and readers, the process is mainly me working alone. In scriptwriting, a lot of time is spent defending the script, holding onto scenes, jokes, and dialogue that don’t necessarily move the plot forward. A screenplay is limited to what people say and do.

Q. When adapting your own stories, do you ever have an “aha” moment, wishing you could have done something better in the novel or feel regret about losing something in the transition to screen?
A . Yes, I definitely feel regret. A book can be as long as you want, but with movies and TV, the parameters are tighter, so you have to be tough with the material. I’m helped by the fact that I was a screenwriter before being a novelist, so I understand how ruthless the process can be.
The flip side is that you can fix things—make a joke more economical. Most of Netflix’s One Day scripts were written by Nicole Taylor, who definitely improved things, making the characters warmer and adding friendships that weren’t on the page. Actors also bring something unique—Amber Kerr, for example, conveys pages of prose with just a look, smile, or gesture.

Q. It's amazing how much is conveyed through action, things that aren’t on the page but exist between the lines. Was it exciting for you to see those in-between moments come to life on screen?
A . Absolutely. It’s a very faithful adaptation, but the first 15 minutes aren’t in the book. There’s a lot of invention, new scenes, and the embellishment of characters like Tilly, who in the novel is more broadly written but becomes a valuable friend in the series.
Much of that comes from responding to the actors. When you like an actor and can hear their tone, you want to give them good lines—things they'll enjoy and that the audience will enjoy too. It was a really happy, collaborative experience for me, almost uniquely so.

Q . You enjoyed working on Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles and Far from the Madding Crowd, as well as the Patrick Melrose stories. Do you approach adapting classic and contemporary works differently?
A . It is, and that’s another joy of adaptation. Because it’s a technical, almost editorial process, it’s very personal and emotionally engaging, but it doesn’t come from inside you. You’re selecting and shaping material, placing emphasis on what you find important as a reader, while staying faithful to the source.
Hardy is a very important writer for me—I discovered him at 16 or 17, and One Day has its genesis in Tess of the d’Urbervilles. There’s a touch of Gabriel Oak in Michael in You Are Here. The idea of fate and “if only” is very Hardy-esque. I also draw from Dickens, particularly in how he handles class, aspiration, and unrequited love.
For me, it’s an opportunity to grow. I’ve definitely become better and more ambitious as a novelist because of the writers I’ve adapted.

Q. The beauty of your novels is how you explore differences in class, as you’ve said. Was highlighting those subtle class contrasts something you set out to do from the beginning?
A . Yes, I think class is inescapable in contemporary British fiction. With Marnie, I was very aware—and grateful—for the opportunity I had to attend university, paid for by the state.
Marnie, who's about 15 years younger than me, didn’t get that chance. I wanted to express concern for people, especially those pursuing the humanities and arts, who’ve lost that opportunity. Marnie is sharp and loves her work as a copy editor but carries some regret about not escaping through education. She’s also slightly patronised by those who did attend university. That question—“Where did you study?”—comes up a few times and is a tender spot for her.

Q. Since you're known for your love stories, how does age factor into writing these tender, loving stories?
A . That's interesting. If there’s a thread tying the six books together, it’s that they’re all about love at different stages of life. Sweet Sorrow is about love at 16, experiencing it for the first time. Starter for Ten looks at the difficult transition into your 20s, when you’re kind of an adult but not quite. The Understudy deals with the uncertainty of your 20s when life may not be going to plan.
One Day is about the journey into middle age—how friendships, chance, and decisions shape your life. Us is about the end of love, the end of a marriage, and family love, especially between a father and son.
You Are Here was written while we were preparing the Netflix One Day, and it feels like an emotional sequel.
I didn’t want the book to be despairing about living alone or without children, but I did want to explore that experience in a way that’s hopeful and uplifting.